#ласточка | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mamasvetlanushka · 1 month ago

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Джонни Депп и остальные распухали не только от того что употребляли наркотики и алкоголь, то что находились в депрессивном состоянии или ещё по каким-то причинам, влияющие на состояние тела.

Все забывают о лице, о голове, которая тоже заставляет тело пухнуть.

И Джонни Депп и остальные просто выходили или же их тела требовали выхода из гипноза. А в эти периоды тело постоянно распухает.

Что касаемо ваших болезней по типу сахарного диабета и так далее..

В большинстве это просто неправильное питание.

Мне сахар в определённом виде необходим, чтобы опорожнять кишечник регулярно. Вам тоже не помешает. Это мои советы по питанию и они далеко ненародные. А с медицинской точки зрения, с точки зрения вашей медицины и вовсе вредные.

Тем не менее, я долгое время оставалась в возрасте 17-18 лет, а далее независимо от того как меня мучили и избивали больше 25 лет никто не давал. Я и была такая, не более 25 лет.

Чтобы доказать как надо мной сбываются издеваются здесь и сейчас, потребуется немало усилий. Потому что я выгляжу сейчас по меркам вашим на 40 лет и не должно быть якобы никаких претензий.

Стакан пустой и от чая с протекающей кружкой след.

Машина.

Всё что у вас есть это предполагаемая теория выходящая из теории большой или большого взрыва какой любите.. эта теория разреза.

Вы всё буквально разрезаете, вам нужна моя теория среза.

Не пытайтесь найти здесь аналогию или антониум.

Пока моё положение не меняется, ничего не меняется. Я даже на высоком положении с властью и деньгами ещё подумаю давать вам эту теорию или нет.

А при таком моём положении вы получите дополнения лишь к теории вреза или разреза.

Так илон Маск постоянно испытывающий гипноз и лысел, опухал, у него были неврологические проблемы и прочее.

Человек который так много работает у него есть на это силы, а его плохое состояние должно иметь причины. Сила человека заниматься постоянно трудовой деятельностью исходит из его здоровья. Здоровья тела и здоровья психологического. Психического. Ну если он постоянно при этом находится словно в больном теле, то это должно иметь причины и в основном связь идёт внешняя с миром, с окружением..

Я тоже опухала и по причине своего женского функционала. Там где рождались мои дети, там где на моем месте появлялась беременная, тогда я распугала словно сама была беременная.

Это и характеризует меня как ту которая не подвержена гипнозу, а также способностью моего тела экстрасенсорики.

09:02

Что предпримите?

У вас свободная зона. Можете ей распорядиться и принять независимое решение. Время? Пол года.

Дети евреев, калифорнийский стаф, пенсильванская "растительность".

Текст песни

Нет, нет, нет, нет, нет, нет, нет, нет

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no

Нет, нет, нет, нет, нет, нет, нет, нет

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no

Австралия, Австралия

Australia, Australia

Ла, ла, ла, ла, ла, причина?

La, la, la, la, la, reason?

Австралия, ла ла ла ла ла

Australia, la la la la la

Австралия, Австралия

Australia, Australia

Ла, ла, ла, ла, ла, причина?

La, la, la, la, la, reason?

Австралия, ла ла ла ла ла

Australia, la la la la la

Моя беда и твоя беда

My trouble and your trouble

Мы просто решим эту проблему

We just gonna solve this problem

Австралия, ла ла ла ла ла

Australia, la la la la la

Вы сбежали, чтобы остаться?

Do you have run away to stay?

Я не хочу бояться своего пути

I don't wanna be afraid of my way

Знаешь, я не хочу идти маленькими шажками.

I don't wanna go in baby steps, you know

Разве никто не скажет, что это правда?

Ain't nobody gonna say that true?

Все кончено, Аллах, я люблю тебя

It's over, Allah, I love you

Знаешь, я не хочу идти маленькими шажками.

I don't wanna go in baby steps, you know

Не ври мне, каждый должен помочь

Don't lie me, everybody should help

Внутри меня сражаются хорошие и плохие

Inside me fight good and bad

Не умирай, я молюсь тебе

Don't die, I pray to you

Боже мой, Боже

Oh my God, God

Каждый должен помочь

Everybody should help

Внутри меня сражаются хорошие и плохие

Inside me fight good and bad

Не умирай, я прошу тебя

Don't die, I pray you

Боже мой

Oh my God

Австралия, Австралия

Australia, Australia

Ла, ла, ла, ла, ла, причина?

La, la, la, la, la, reason?

Австралия, ла ла ла ла ла

Australia, la la la la la

Австралия, Австралия

Australia, Australia

Ла, ла, ла, ла, ла, причина?

La, la, la, la, la, reason?

У-ла-ла-у-ла-у-ла-ла

Uh-la-la-uh-la-uh-la-la

Вы сбежали, чтобы остаться?

Do you have run away to stay?

Я не хочу бояться своего пути

I don't wanna be afraid of my way

Я не хочу идти маленькими шажками

I don't wanna go in baby steps

Ты знаешь

You know

Разве никто не скажет, что это правда?

Ain't nobody gonna say that true?

Все кончено, Аллах, я люблю тебя

It's over, Allah, I love you

Знаешь, я не хочу идти маленькими шажками.

I don't wanna go in baby steps, you know

Шаги, ты знаешь

Steps, you know

Не ври мне, каждый должен помочь

Don't lie me, everybody should help

Внутри меня сражаются хорошие и плохие

Inside me fight good and bad

Не умирай, я молюсь тебе

Don't die, I pray to you

Боже мой (Австралия, ла-ла)

Oh my God (Australia, la la)

Каждый должен помочь

Everybody should help

Внутри меня сражаются хорошие и плохие

Inside me fight good and bad

Не умирай, я прошу тебя

Don't die, I pray you

Боже мой (внутри ла-ла-ла)

Oh my God (inside la la la)

Та-та-та-та-та-та-та

Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta

Та-та-та-та-та-та-та

Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta

Та-та-та-та-та-та-та

Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta

Моя беда и твоя беда (та-та-та-та-та-та-та)

My trouble and your trouble (ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta)

Мы просто решим эту проблему (та-та-та-та-та-та-та)

We just gonna solve this problem (ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta)

Австралия, ла ла ла ла ла (та-та-та-та-та-та-та)

Australia, la la la la la (ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta)

Источник: Musixmatch

В кино фантазии в основном и всегда неверная интерпретация, всегда либо приукрашено или наоборот. тут Алекс и Джон, так мы любили? Мы любили друг друга, но в конце. Вначале.. пока Алекс мало меня проявляла, лишь в работе можно было увидеть меня, тогда Джон использовал Алекс как и всех, а Алекс прина��лежала другому и телом и духом. Джон после встречи со мной изменился, он по-другому посмотрел на Алекс и понял, что не гей. Что ему не хватало женщины как раз. К Алекс он подбирался осторожно теперь и хотел её "по нарастающей". Он знал, что она к нему что-то испытывает..её тело(изнасилованное ранее Джоном) отвечало взаимностью. Она хотела Джона, потому что ей с ним было хорошо. Алекс была под гипнозом, не понимая, что её насилуют. С моим лучом внутри, она была защищена..она помнила что с ней делали, её тело давало об этом знать. И при РЕАЛЬНОЙ встречи с Джоном, Алекс захотела его больше, чем того кому на тот момент принадлежала.

09 28

Позже у Алекс появятся чувства к джуну Джону. А Джон воспримет это как угрозу. Алекс самоликвидируется. У вас делает она это при помощи Джона, а её насильника и мужа, того кто не давал ей жить. В прошлом у Трампа , точнее у его тела в прошлой жизни была установка, он не должен был бы быть женатым, его семья стала бы погибелью для него. Так или иначе, отношения с Алекс скрывались, Алекс могла только в работе себя проявлять, постоянно меняя маски, парики, наряды. Она была то одной личностью, то другой. В этой жизни утром по жена с одним лицом, телом и состоянием духа, поэтому мыло не Трамп Мелани Трамп в любом возрасте выглядит красивой картинкой, словно застыла.

А у Джона прекрасная семья, но она его похоронила заживо.

Я появилась перед женам Джоном и сказала ему меня убить.

Теперь каждое у кого есть возможность выхода к Джону меня убивает. А сам Джон прячется в тени. И он единственный кто не причинит мне вреда находясь рядом.

Алекс умерла от большой дозы яда. Она умерла в номере отеля, Где проживала со своим мужем. Там происходило разные и чаще всего то, что Алекс не видела. Она знала что принимает яд и не противилась этому. Яд был доставлен мужем, помощь должна была прийти от Джона. Муж использовал этот яд для того чтобы проверить Алекс. У Алекс был иммунитет На многие яды, она сама являлась продуктом фашистской лаборатории. Мужу надо было это проверить. Если Алекс умирает, то значит она подставная. Что это значит? А то что он ей даст яд, который не подействует как убийственный на любого человека. А на неё из-за большого содержания других ядов.. убьёт.

Такие создания фашистской лаборатории тогда ещё были редкостью. Фашисты не учли один момент.. что эти яды разрушают человеческий организм и с последующим употреблением в новом поколении действуют на поражение. Ведь они сложными для того чтобы уничтожать организм человека, а не укреплять его. С обработкой информации об этих ядах человек и его тело воспринимает всё правильно. Поэтому эти яды впоследствии перестали давать силу, красоту и молодость, они стали человека разрушать, отбирать у него силу, красоту и молодость.

То что в меня впихнули все эти яды и я ещё жива, периодически восстанавливаюсь и так далее по-настоящему чудо.

Но в этом мире нет ни одной лаборатории и ни одного удачного эксперимента, где бы тело так реагировало. Потому что с рано и щенки я о ядах знаю намного больше чем вы. Здесь и сейчас моё первое и полное воплощение в этом поколении людей и то количество ядов которые прошло через моё сознание вам и не счесть.

Это не значит что моё тело не страдает и я не умираю. Это значит что вы совершили множество преступлений против меня. Фашистских преступлений в плохом смысле этого понимания.

Муж Алекс был удовлетворён результатом, оболгав свою жену и всё было записано как проститутка с передозом сдохла в номере отеля. Вот так он отнёсся к своей жене. Поэтому в этой жизни ему досталось из ряда вон выходящие особо и её подставили к трампу для того чтобы.. несмотря на то что в будущем ему предстояло счастливая жизнь с одной женщиной, его по максимуму скрутили. И если дети трампа его по-настоящему любят, то они не станут противиться этой информации.

Ему досталось такая дама, которая взяла на себя эту роль.. если дети хотят какого-то деликатного отношения с моей стороны в этом вопросе.. будем считать что она была актрисой и исполняла роль, той который Алекс не являлась.

Джон вопросительный знак Джон не помог Алекс. Он не мог. У него не было противоядия. От этого яда противоядия не было. Яд находился в разработке и всё что мог Джон сделать это вытрясти этот яд из неё. Он должен был активировать клетки Алекс так, чтобы они стали обновляться с бешеной скоростью. Даже если бы Он схватил её и утащил в лабораторию, то у него бы не получилось. Если бы Алекс можно было запихать в какую-нибудь центрифугу с ��озможностью расщепления частиц.. Да так чтобы она не превратилась в курицу гриль как в микроволновке, тогда этот яд можно было бы в действии приостановить и Алекс могла бы впасть в глубокую кому. Из этой комы она скорее бы всего не вышла..

09:45

Этот яд является основой для долгосрочного сохранения тела при определённых условиях радио и прочие активности, так у вас лежит Ленин в мавзолеи.

То что должно оживлять человеческий организм, у вас это лишь сохранение трупа и когда человек живой этот яд действует именно так, Он сохраняет труп или трупные отложения.

То есть меня травили таким образом, живыми организмами, которые погибали не способные перевариться и выйти из этого организма они погибали там и оставались продолжая своё гниение. Сейчас из этого мусора мой организм не может ничего толком выработать для себя. Это меня губит и убивает.

Вывести этот яд практически невозможно. Практически невозможно и невозможно вообще в тех условиях которых я нахожусь. Именно поэтому после бега Мне становится легче, несмотря на то что потом я очень сильно страдаю по всяким причинам и в том числе болят ноги. Заниматься на эллиптическом тренажёре тоже не вариант. Мои лёгкие должны правильно раскрываться при естественном положении тела, а также мой мозг должен обрабатывать информацию и быть живым воспринимать этот бег как живой и естественный.

Для человека важно находиться в естественных природных условиях как говорят в естественных условиях природных условиях среди совершенства.

Абсолютно все имеют право на то чтобы проживать или проводить время за городом, А лучше чтобы у каждого была возможность жить в природных условиях. Очень важно сохранение деревьев, кустарников, сажать цветы просто в клумбы высаживать семена полевых растений, которые осенью дают красивый цвет и форму, а летом цветут. Это прекрасные соцветия для тех же самых пчёл. Вы постоянно находитесь в проблемах и не хотите их решать. Создаёте новые.

Со мной поступили ужасно.

9:50

10:12

Вы постоянно добавляли этот яд. Вы преступники, желающие мне смерти.

Для обычного человека достаточно одного такого раза, чтобы он умер или получил серьёзный необратимые повреждения.

Этот яд практически ни в каких медицинских исследованиях не будет выявлен. Он вычленил вычленен из этих исследований.

В этот раз вполне мог меня спасти Джон. Не вмешиваться.. тогда этого приказа не б��ло. А сейчас.. неужели приказ важнее человека.

И вы хотите чтобы я любила вас? Вы смеете проявлять ко мне неуважение?

Мне не нужны ответы на эти вопросы.

0 notes

aarghhaaaarrrghhh · 5 days ago

Text

What Lastochka Left Unsaid/О чём молчит ласточка - Chapter Sixteen

Master post here

Chapter Sixteen - Another Love

The Minsk-Kharkiv plane landed at quarter to six, Kyiv time. One thought rattled around Volodya’s head the whole day long and he couldn’t believe it at all - Yura was going to be there, in Kharkiv, with him, in no time at all. But until he saw him with his own eyes, touched him with his own hands, their meeting would seem like a dream to him. And since the morning, time seemed to have not simply dragged on, but frozen entirely.

He couldn’t sit still - burning with impatience, he arrived at the office before it opened, if only to while away the hours before his trip to the airport. He slept very poorly that night. He tossed and turned until three, trying to get comfortable, and picturing his meeting with Yura, the way he would finally see him in the flesh, and not just on his monitor.

After lunch, a text came from Yura:

I’m in Minsk. We’re flying without a layover. If only I could get to you sooner.

I’ll meet you in the arrivals hall.

Okay, I’ll be in a beige coat!

Volodya laughed and sent:

I’d recognise you even without the coat.

And added on the end:

By the way, before I forget: be careful with Gerda! When I got home, she threw herself at me for strokes and pushed me right into the mud.

Pfft… Gerda. To be honest, I’m counting on you throwing yourself at me… with kisses.

I have a feeling that might happen.

He was already on the way to the airport, forty minutes before the landing. As he drove around the area, he speculated with interest on what Yura was thinking right then as he flew high, high above the earth, by then most likely over Kharkiv or its surroundings. Was he sleeping or reading? Was he listening to someone else’s music, or coming up with his own? After stopping in the carpark by the airport’s main building, he stared up at the heavy, grey clouds in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the silver speck of a plane. Just to think - Yura was somewhere up there. What was on his mind as he looked down below? The same as Volodya, looking up?

He had an urge to laugh.

Look at that, I’m standing in the middle of a car park, smiling at clouds, like an idiot!

Volodya went into the arrivals hall and gathered his thoughts. The number of the flight and its arrival time was already glowing on the signboard. Another ten minutes… Volodya restrained himself, with difficulty, from counting down the seconds.

He heard the roar of the engines of a landing plane, then saw it through the vast window that looked out on the runway. Ten minutes stretched out into half an hour: after all, there was still passport control, then baggage reclaim to come. Yura - with his suitcase in his right hand, and a bag from the duty-free in his left - came down into the hall together with a string of other passengers. He looked from side to side, immediately noticed Volodya approaching him, and broke out into a smile.

Volodya’s first impulse was to hug him. But at the last moment, with his arms already around Yura’s shoulders, he faltered. Constant noise beat against his ears: the hubbub of people, echoing off the walls of the hall, the clack of heels on the marble floor, the mechanical voice of the dispatcher from the loudspeakers. They weren’t alone; would it be appropriate to hug? Holding Yura thus, by the shoulder, Volodya simply gazed at his face, but Yura, his smile dropping, hissed between his teeth:

“If you don’t hug me right now, I’m going to straight up kiss you.”

The threat worked - out of the two evils, Volodya picked the lesser: he pulled him in close to himself and hugged him, trying to make it come across like they were just friends. But it didn’t work - he couldn’t let him go again at first, as he was taking pleasure in the smell of Yura’s hair. Yura figured out a way of touching his lips to Volodya’s neck so that his goosebumps ran across his skin. Detaching from the embrace turned out to be easier said than done. But, having noticed out of the corner of his eye a passing woman making a face at the sight of them, Volodya let him go anyway.

After sticking their things in the boot and getting into the car, Yura’s phone began to ring. He opened the message and smiled.

“No way! I’ve barely just landed and…”

“Who’s already….”

Yura showed him the phone screen. Since he was driving out of the car park and paying attention to the road, he only made out the name of the contact, transliterated, at a glance: Sidorova.

“Masha, huh? What does she want?”

“Get this, to see me. She says that if I refuse her, she’ll put a curse on me.”

Volodya laughed heartily, remembering the spell with the flies.

“You bet… she’s an expert in all sorts of supernatural rubbish.”

For the first time in his life, Volodya regretted living outside the city. It wasn’t like he had to go deep into the wilderness, but the road home felt endless. Yura was firing off messages back and forth with Masha for half the journey, then he talked about his flight - about how the plane had fallen into turbulence a couple of times and he’d been stricken by nausea. Volodya tried to pay attention, but now and then he got the thought to stop the car somewhere in the middle of a field, so that he could finally get out from behind the wheel, turn to Yura and… And he didn’t even know what he wanted more: to throw himself onto him right then and there, or to simply hug him even harder than he had at the airport, and never let him go. He had missed him so badly!

But even once they had returned home, they didn’t immediately get the chance to be alone together - as soon as he opened the gate, Gerda practically knocked Yura off his feet. Luckily, there was no slush on the street, otherwise Yura’s monotone beige coat would have been turned all spotty.

“Gerda, down!” cried Volodya, but the dog paid no heed, and neither did Yura - fully and completely happy, he went to pat her on the sides. “Now you’re going to get all the fur-”

“It’s alright,” Yura brushed him off, “Gerda’s fur is similar to the colour of my coat. Me and you are stylish, huh, girl?” He broke into laughter. “It’s crazy, she’s not seen me for half a year, but she remembers me!”

“You’ll be forgotten…” muttered Volodya as he wheeled Yura’s suitcase inside.

Yura followed him and slammed the door closed after himself. Gerda whined on the other side, insulted, but he was no longer paying her any attention - he took his coat off, hung it on a peg, turned to Volodya and froze as he looked him in the face. Volodya was biting his lip, drawn to him like a magnet. He took a step towards Yura, clasped his face in his hands and stuck his nose into his cold cheek:

“Yur… Yura…”

“Mm? What is it?” Yura touched his neck with his warm fingers and drew in close to his lips, but without kissing them, merely just lightly making contact.

Volodya shook his head and closed his eyes.

“I’ve missed you so badly…”

He found his lips without opening his eyes - soft, they opened pliantly as they met his own. The world around them stopped moving. Fragments of thoughts whirled through his head: he had waited, Yura was here, it was real… And then they fell quiet. Only sensations remained: Yura’s fingers in his hair, the taste of his mint chewing gum, his smooth skin beneath his hands - Volodya himself had not noticed when he had gotten up under Yura’s jumper. And then it grew particularly steamy.

Volodya threw his coat on the floor. Yura grabbed him by the loops of his belt. He placed a kiss on his chin, breathing heavily, and whispered:

“Volod, stop…” But in contrast to his own words, he pulled him even closer. “Volod, I’ve been travelling, I need a shower.”

“Very well…” Volodya kissed him on the neck. “Then I’ll…” His lips reached the neckline of his jumper. “I’ll let you go now…”

And so he did, exerting incredible restraint on his part.

Yura went into the shower. Volodya couldn’t sit still - first he called Gerda back into the house, then picked up a towel that Yura didn’t need and stuck his head in the bathroom.

“There’s a towel here already,” smiled Yura.

“Have another one,” said Volodya, unable to tear his gaze away - Yura had already managed to get undressed and was standing in his underwear. “You remember where all the shower gel and shampoo is, right?”

“I’ve got my own.” But he was in no hurry to shut the door, holding the towel in hand and looking at Volodya.

“What?” Volodya asked, perplexed.

“You’re looking at me like Gerda.”

Volodya raised an eyebrow.

“How so?”

Yura shrugged.

“Well, when she’s begging for pats and strokes, she gives me just about the same look…” Throwing the door wide open, he walked off to the shower and turned the tap on. “Coming with me?”

Volodya didn’t need to be asked twice.

A few minutes later, Volodya almost fell out of reality. The shower rumbled, a jet of hot water trickled over his body. He embraced Yura and kissed his wet shoulders, squeezed him and was squeezed, and touched him wherever he wanted. But suddenly Yura, turning away, asked:

“How’s your German been going?”

Volodya choked.

“You found the time for the exam…”

Yura laughed:

“Go on then, tell me something in German.”

Volodya shook his head - right then, it was hard to think even in Russian, let alone in a different language. But he was still able to recollect something he had learnt recently.

He pressed up close against Yura’s back and, with his lips touching his ear.

“Ich will dich,” he said slowly and as a half-whisper, uncertain whether he had pronounced it right, or whether Yura could even hear him over the sound of the water. Volodya kissed him on the back of the neck, went back to his ear and added, “A lot.”

Yura began to tremble, either from laughter or from Volodya’s titillating breath. But then he slipped out of the embrace, turned to face him, pulled up to his lips and just before the kiss, whispered:

“Warte auf die Nacht…”

***

Volodya cooked dinner whilst Yura, sitting at his laptop, planned a trip: he was chatting with Masha about meeting up and was studying an advert for plays and concerts. He came up with a lot of ideas of what to do to fill the two weeks. Volodya even regretted it a little bit - he wanted not to go anywhere out of the house for the whole of Yura’s trip, even though he suspected that being shut up would quickly bore the two of them.

After laying the table, Volodya got the rum he had bought earlier out of the cupboard. Seeing the bottle, Yura raised his eyebrows.

“You bought this? For me?”

Volodya grinned and shrugged.

“I hope you’re alright with the brand? If not, shall we open yours?”

Yura chuckled:

“Everything’s alright. Rum’s rum, even in Africa. I’ll drink any.”

After eating and drinking half a glass, Yura began yawning, even though the clock didn’t even read nine. Volodya sighed looking at him - he had long since, even on Skype, noticed that Yura looked chronically exhausted. And in person, that exhaustion appeared even more intense: he had gotten thinner, his cheekbones sharper, and dark shadows hung under his eyes.

Volodya asked with concern:

“Yur, are you ill?”

But Yura just brushed him off:

“Everything’s fine, I just need to catch up on sleep. I’ll be myself again tomorrow - I have only just arrived on holiday.”

The conversation wasn’t going well. Volodya caught himself on the strange thought that, contrary to their habit, neither he nor Yura could find the right words or questions. As they constantly spoke online, they both knew how the other was doing, and their longing was only caused by the impossibility of feeling the other’s physical presence nearby. That was probably why the sense that they hadn’t seen each other for a long time was hazy and subdued.

Transferring to the sofa in the living room, Yura began to recount his plans for the holiday ahead. He was plainly drunk - it was strange that one glass had taken him there.

“We need to go for a walk around the city, since I didn’t get the chance last time. This is where I grew up, it’ll be interesting to see how much it’s changed.” He got cozy on Volodya’s shoulder, who put an arm around his waist. “When I was composing your CD, it was so nice to transform memories into music that now I want to make a record of my childhood and memory of Kharkiv when I get back home. I’ve been awfully worn out these last two months, I’ve not found a single day for my own music, just work…”

Volodya ran a couple of locks of his hair through his fingers and buried his nose in the crown of his head.

“You do look like you’ve been through it.”

“Wow, is it really that obvious?” He lifted his head and looked Volodya in the face disbelievingly. Volodya nodded and laid a hand on his cheek, stroking him with his thumb.

“You’ve lost weight. I bet you’ve only been eating whenever you remember, or did you forget to eat entirely?”

Yura shrugged and smiled guiltily.

“Well, maybe, sometimes… What, are you going to fatten me up then?”

“Of course!”

“I get the feeling that was a pointless question. I see you’re going to fatten me up with oatmeal, boiled chicken breast and salads…”

He took the remote control off the television and began flicking mindlessly through channels. He ended up on some soap opera.

“It’s so odd hearing Ukrainian coming from the telly,” he commented. “It’s like I’ve ended up in another world.”

“When I came to visit you, it was just as odd hearing German everywhere. But you can at least understand what they’re saying here, whereas I was like… someone from a different planet.”

“But by now, you can translate some stuff?” Yura smiled craftily.

Volodya shrugged.

“I’ve only been going to lessons for a couple of months… I can sort of read a bit, but listening is hard. But if they’re saying something uncomplicated slowly and clearly, I can understand. I speak badly myself; I can’t yet express my thoughts quickly without stumbling. And the words are convoluted as well. Your German sounds wonderful, soft, whereas mine is like nothing but barking.”

Yura threw back his head in laughter. He stayed half-laying like that, resting his cheek on the back of the sofa and touching Volodya’s forearm. Volodya turned and leant over him, while Yura, smiling, put his glasses right, which had slipped down his nose.

“You have a wonderful voice, Volod, no matter what language you’re speaking. When I was young, I loved listening to you-”

“And now you don’t?”

“I do! But now you speak differently: your Gs are softer, your Shs are more drawn out. Basically, you’ve taken on a Kharkiv accent. And you used to pronounce your unstressed vowels weirdly, like a typical Ma-a-ascovite. It used to drive me crazy!” He giggled and suddenly grew serious. “And then… and then I began to like everything about you.”

Volodya’s heart twinged from the confession, which sounded like it could have come from the distant past.

“It’s strange to remember someone’s voice after two decades, isn’t it?” asked Yura.

“I don’t know,” replied Volodya. “With hearing like yours, what could be strange about it?”

“Do you mean you don’t remember my voice?”

Volodya shook his head and spoke honestly:

“Not well. I remember that it was resonant: when you shouted at the kids, it made my ears ring. I kind of remember some of your intonation, but I can’t picture the exact pronunciations in my head. And there’s a lot getting in the way as well - I’m used to how you sound now… So soft and silky, with a nice accent. And, as it sounds to me, with a little bit of a rasp, right?”

Yura spread his hands, smiling.

“You’d know best; I sound completely different to myself.”

“It’s funny,” Volodya led on, “I’ve never discussed how someone’s voice sounds with anybody before. The thought’s never even crossed my mind.”

“You’ve just never had a musician for a boyfriend before,” chuckled Yura.

“Actually, I have,” disagreed Volodya, with playful seriousness. “True, it was a long time ago, when I was eighteen…”

Yura guffawed and prodded him on the forehead.

“You didn’t consider me your boyfriend back then.”

“But it was obvious.”

Yura snorted:

“To who? If you ask me, even Sidorova had a better idea of it than you!” Mimicking Volodya, he reminded him, “‘Special friend, special friend’, that’s what you used to say!”

“That’s a synonym, though!”

“I disagree!” exclaimed Yura. He slung his arms around Volodya’s neck and pulled him onto himself. Volodya shifted to be fully up against him, and he felt Yura drumming his fingertips on his back. “It makes me a little sad to think back to how we used to be. Although at times, it feels like you’ve not changed that much. Just grown older, more solid, more… Serious?” he said as though asking himself the question. He replied immediately: “Nah, you’ve always been serious, but it’s easy to recognise the old Volodya in you. I’ve changed more.”

Volodya couldn’t tell whether that last part was a question or an affirmation. He didn’t want to reply - what if he offended Yura? Yes, people changed, especially after so many years, but in the present Yura, Volodya truly saw very little of the previous one.

“Do you remember, I said on the recordings that I wouldn’t want to go back there, to the past? That’s true. Because back then, me and you would have split up again, we wouldn’t have been able to be together. But we can now. But I’m so afraid that you won’t accept me as I am, the way I’ve become.”

Volodya disengaged from the embrace, propped himself up and looked him in the face with concern.

“What’s with this rubbish you’re on about? Yura, what we had between us when we were young is very important, but here and now, it doesn’t have any meaning. Youth has been and gone and me and you are here, together, and what’s the point in chaining ourselves to the past? I’ve already gotten past that stage. I’ve fallen in love with you all over again, With you the way you are now, not the way you once were.”

Yura lowered the fingers in his hair down to the back of his neck and pulled in towards his lips.

“Good,” he whispered as he closed his eyes. “The main thing is that you don’t have any regrets.”

“How could I-” Volodya began, but he gave up on finishing his sentence and simply kissed him.

Gerda began to whine outside the window - an hour before, Volodya had let her out to run around in the garden. While he cleaned the dog’s paws, Yura managed to pass out right on the sofa in the living room. More accurately, so it seemed to Volodya, because he was lying with his elbow propped under his head and his eyes closed. On the television, someone was running after someone else, shouting declarations of love. Afraid that the noise might wake Yura up, Volodya carefully took the remote out of his hand and turned the television off, but without opening his eyes, Yura suddenly said:

“Put it back on, I’m listening to it.”

Unsurprised, Volodya smiled - he recollected that Yura more often listened to films than watched them. And lo: when the scene finished and the sentimental music ended along with it, Yura opened his eyes and sat up.

“Meh soundtrack,” came his verdict. “It’s all lovey-dovey, but the music’s making it sound like they’re on the verge of dying…”

“But it’s just some generic series, Yur. Who’s going to compose this magnificent accompaniment for it?”

“A quality job by the sound director and the composer could make it not quite so generic.” Yura yawned.

“Let’s go to bed. It seems like you’re already falling asleep.”

“Sure, let’s… I did promise you something else today, after all.”

He cocked his eyebrows suggestively and got up, stretching so that his vest rode up and lay his sunken belly bare for a long second. Anticipating where the evening was going, Volodya sighed fitfully, but then smiled softly when he saw Yura cover his mouth for yet another yawn.

“Your promises can wait ‘til tomorrow.”

He took Yura by the hand and led him to the bedroom, but Yura held onto him around the shoulders, hung off him and capriciously drawled:

“I don’t wanna go anywhere. Put me back.”

Volodya rolled his eyes.

“Looks like we’re back in preschool…” Gerda, agreeing with him, growled vexedly. “Even my dog’s telling you to quit messing around and go to bed.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll do as you say! All these commanders…”

Yura really was very tired. He fell asleep almost immediately - Volodya left him alone for only a couple of minutes to feed Gerda and when he returned, he was already snoring quietly, with the duvet pulled up to his chin. After turning off the lamp, Volodya carefully climbed in with him - Yura didn’t wake up, just shifted closer and buried his nose in Volodya’s chest.

Volodya laid without closing his eyes for a long time still. He was paying attention to himself - to the warmth flowing inside him, to the peacefulness and calmness he had known once in Germany and which he had missed terribly in the intervening months.

***

Whilst Yura slept, done in by his flight, Volodya went out for a run. When he returned and opened the door of his home, he paused upon the threshold. His heart was warmed by the pleasant feeling that his home was no longer empty, that there was another person in there, someone beloved.

As he glanced inside the bedroom, he felt a sweet and tender feeling - Yura was laying, folded up into a kalachik, hugging a second pillow.

He woke up closer to eleven. Volodya was feeding Gerda and brewing the coffee when Yura came into the kitchen in his boxers and hugged him from behind.

"Good morning."

"Morning." Volodya wanted to turn around to kiss him, but the coffee was beginning to boil in the pot and Yura immediately darted off to the bathroom.

"What's your order for the day?" he asked when he came back. "I've done well to come on holiday, while you've still got work-"

Volodya waved him off.

"I also took holiday - I don't want any distractions. The firm won't burn down without me," he replied confidently, although he did actually have his doubts about that. "I'll have to go into the office a couple of times, of course, to sign some things and make decisions on projects. But on the whole... Why else do I have Braginsky, at the end of the day?"

"I see. I just don't want to distract you either...."

Volodya feigned indignation:

"It's not about you distracting me from work, it's work distracting me from you. You've not come for long, I can put my work to the side."

Yura looked down at his mug of coffee.

"Thank you..." he mumbled quietly, then suddenly burst into life: "By the way! Have you listened to my CD, all the way to the end?"

Volodya nodded:

"Yeah, but the last piece... if I'm being honest, I didn't understand it. I decided that since you were coming and the track's about you, then we could listen to it together so that you can explain it all to me... You wouldn't be offended?"

"No, of course not. I did think the last one would be harder for you, since you don't know my history. Alright, we'll listen to it, but let's not today. We're going out for a walk with Masha today! She's already been blowing my phone up."

"Oh Lord, it's still early!"

"Why do you think I woke up before lunch? You think that was of my own accord?"

"Well..." muttered Volodya. "I'd rather have woken you up in some... more interesting way..."

Yura smiled dreamily, but shook his head right after, as though shaking off the last remnants of sleep, and he cheerfully commanded:

"So, it's decided: we'll get dressed, and off to Kharkiv!"

It was as though not only Volodya, but nature itself was made happy by Yura’s arrival. Spring confidently conquered winter for its rightful place: the sky was clear, the sun was blinding, and the birds were singing. As he listened to the cheerful chirrupping, Volodya recalled unbidden his guest, unusual for those parts - the swallow that had flown into his garden the previous autumn.

“It’s nice here, when it’s not all wet and muddy,” commented Yura as they went outside. He inhaled deeply and said, “Smells of spring.”

Volodya drove Gerda outside into the garden, poured some food for her into her bowl by the doghouse and headed for the car.

“What if it rains?” asked Yura, following him. “I mean, Gerda’s outside…”

“Firstly, I’ve not locked the door to the house; she knows how to open it with her paw. And in the worst-case scenario, she has a huge doghouse anyway, me and you could fit in it.”

“Isn’t it scary leaving your door unlocked?”

“That’s why the gate into the garden is locked.

Yura said nothing in reply, and merely gave an ambiguous chuckle.

They had agreed to meet Masha at three in the afternoon, and they decided to spend the time before that walking around Shevchenko Park. However, they ended up not walking for long. Yura had put on thin white trousers and was soon frozen, and Volodya as well, accustomed as he was to driving rather than going on foot, felt all the deceptiveness of spring. The sun was warming, while the wind still blew cold and strove to get up under his clothing to steal his warmth. Therefore, they decided to postpone their exploration of Kharkiv for another time and wait for Masha in a cafe by the metro station. But she wasn’t just sitting around at home, and she called half an hour before the agreed-upon time, to say that she was already waiting beneath the thermometer.

Yura spotted her from afar and began to wave. Volodya was surprised - how many years had they not seen each other, and yet he recognised her straight away? Even greater was his surprise when, instead of a simple greeting, Yura grabbed her and spun her around in a hug, so much that she squealed.

“Sidorova!” exclaimed Yura, placing her back on her feet. Holding her by the shoulders, he stared at her, narrowed his eyes, and gave his verdict: “You’re just the same as you always were!”

She clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes.

“Give it a rest, Konev! Neither have you!” She broke out in a smile. “And really, I’ve not been a Sidorova for a long time…”

“You’ll always be Sidorova to me… Because, you ass, you ruined my whole life,” Yura burst out laughing.

Masha took no offense; she caught the joke and also began to laugh, but for appearance’s sake, she thumped him on the shoulder.

“Wow, how about that?” commented Volodya once they finally paid attention to him. “And to think, you two couldn’t stand each other before.”

Yura snickered:

“That was my way of expressing my love for her!”

Masha brushed her hair off her shoulder coquettishly and rolled her eyes again.

“Oh, what the hell do I need you for?”

“Oh, yeah, where am I going with this? Volodya’s much better!” sneered Yura.

Masha snorted and gave first one of them, then the other an ambiguous look.

“He really is, isn’t he, Yura?”

Continuing to make multi-layered jokes, they headed to the cafe. Volodya had not yet grown hungry and drank some water, while Yura ordered himself ice cream. Masha limited herself to tea, cutesily alluding to her diet.

Volodya mostly listened, while Yura and Masha did more of the talking. They reminisced about their seasons at Lastochka, their friends in common and funny stories. Volodya, having only been to the camp once, could hardly contribute to the topic, and neither did he want to get in the way - he would find the time later to get his fill of talking to Yura. After thirty minutes, it grew clear that the formerly sworn enemies’ chat was not going to end any time soon, and Volodya decided to leave them for a little while, and he went to work.

It was a stone’s throw to the office from there - across Constitution Plaza and down Sumskaya Street.

Volodya picked up his books on German, gave some commands to his colleagues and bumped into Braginsky, who he invited into his office.

“How is it that you’ve ended up here at work when you’re on holiday?” He spread his arms.

“Is it that easy for you to cast everything aside?” Volodya made a face. “You take holiday and forget all about the lorries at the border.”

“Oh, stop it!” Braginsky handwaved. “How is it our fault?”

“Because you didn’t tell me. Dima, how about you make sure this doesn’t happen again, deal?”

“Sir, yes sir,” Braginsky joked. “By the way, where are you going?”

“Going? Oh, my holiday… I’m staying in Kharkiv, I have… stuff going on here.”

Narrowing his eyes, Braginsky spread his arms graciously and slowly nodded.

“The same stuff as over the New Year’s holidays? Mhm, mhm, I see, you’re taking a lot of these holidays, Vov! When are you going to make it official?”

Volodya merely sighed in exhaustion:

“I’m not about to get married, if that’s what you mean.”

“And nor should you be!” Braginsky clapped him on the shoulder. “Why hurry? Everything in its own time! Very well, go with God; family is the most important thing.”

Though Braginsky did not know the whole truth about Volodya, over the course of years of friendship with his father, he had grown to accept him like his own son, something which, especially while under the influence, he declared openly. Braginsky sincerely loved Volodya and, were he to find out the truth about him, he would hate him with the same sincerity. In any case, that was what Volodya thought, and so when talking with him, he was always on his guard and trying not to get caught up in his lies.

Upon his return to the cafe, Volodya discovered that the sworn friends had already managed to polish off two bottles of champagne, and Masha, who an hour earlier had been watching her figure, was devouring a cream, fruit and chocolate dessert. When Volodya walked up to their table, she was whispering something conspiratorially to Yura, leaning over the table, and giggling.

“Interesting tea you’ve got there,” remarked Volodya. He sat next to Yura and reached for a menu. “Shall we have lunch? Or are you only having champagne and dessert today?”

Yura smiled broadly and shrugged.

During his absence, the two of them had evidently managed to get through all of their Lastochka stories, because Masha was now asking Yura about Germany. He told her about it with enthusiasm, and Volodya, now familiar with the topic, could even take part in the conversation.

At some point after an hour, Masha began to yawn - and so she should, after two bottles. Yura promptly leapt to his feet and proposed everyone go for a walk in the park, despite Volodya’s sober reasoning that, getting on for the evening as it was, it would have gotten even colder outside.

However, they never ended up getting to the park. A gusty wind was howling down Sumskaya that day, and by the time they reached the Kharkiv State Academic Opera and Ballet Theatre, Masha’s teeth were chattering.

“I did say you’d be freezing,” grumbled Volodya. “No-one listened to me.”

Masha waved him off and suddenly pointed at an advert on the theatre building.

“Oh, look, Volod, Phantom of the Opera’s coming back in May!”

“Do you want to go again?”

Masha shook her head.

“Well, no, why would I, we’ve already been… Something new would be better. Although maybe Yura would be interested? Yura, have you seen The Phantom of the Opera?”

“Of course,” he nodded. “Truly, if we’re going to something, I’d rather it be something else.”

“Why, didn’t you like it?” babbled Masha. “How, though? Volodya said that it was you who recommended he buy tickets specifically for Phantom…”

“Well, I knew that you’d like it,” smiled Yura. He walked along the fountain, turned off at the moment, and peered over the edge in curiosity, “What we have in you is a romantic sort of person, right? That musical is tailor-made for people like you.”

Masha came closer to him and also peered into the fountain. She snorted:

“Yeah, it’s a musical about love, of course it’s romantic, and I liked it! True, it was sad…”

Volodya had no recourse but to also approach the fountain. He looked down and barely held back a chuckle: there was nothing of interest, just dirty water crusted over with ice in the bottom. But Yura, still looking down, asked:

“Why is it sad?”

“Well, because he disappeared in the end, the Phantom,” explained Masha. “That’s sad! Did he die? Or something like that?”

Yura stuck his hands in the pockets of his coat and hunched his shoulders.

“I don’t know. But the ending is the right thing, I think. After all, his love for Christine was completely egotistical and wrong: he loved her as a muse, as a…” Yura paused in thought. “He didn’t love her as a person. Christine’s voice is nothing but an instrument for his creativity. And, knowing that she’s in love with someone else, the Phantom still tries to get her by manipulation and force, he’s even prepared to hurt her.”

Masha froze and stared at Yura, taken aback - even her mouth was hanging open.

“And here I never thought about that subtext…” she trailed off.

“And I always thought it was right there on the surface. And I was surprised that people kept thinking of it as a work about love. But that’s my personal opinion. I’m always getting hung up nitpicking the small details if it has anything to do with music, even in passing, it’s my job.”

“Hey, Yurka, you’re so smart!” exclaimed Masha. She raised the collar of her coat to shield herself from yet another gust of wind. “But boys, let’s maybe go home. Volodya was right: I’m frozen stiff!”

Volodya sighed with relief - finally, they were walking again.

“Shall I drop you home? My car’s parked on Rymarskaya.”

***

Thinking back to those two wonderful weeks in Germany, Volodya tried to make it so that every minute he spent in Kharkiv would also be magical and inspiring for Yura. Though Volodya didn’t want to compare the two trips, he still ended up doing so, even in the small details. For example, his living room with its fireplace was no doubt stylish, but it wasn’t as cozy as Yura’s office - it was dismal and empty. The bare trees and withered grass out the panoramic windows also inspired no good cheer. But Volodya still tried to induce a similar atmosphere. Before going to cook dinner, he turned off the lights and lit the fire, and the glow of the fire danced throughout the house.

Damp after his shower and wrapped up in Volodya’s dressing gown, Yura peeked over his shoulder at the frying pan and made a face:

“Gah, what’s that, fava beans?”

“Oh, stop it, you, they’re tasty. Especially with chicken and rice. And not to mention, healthy.”

“This isn’t Kharkiv, this is some kind of health rehab centre. I get the feeling that over this two-week trip, I’m not only going to put on weight, but also get ten years younger.” He laughed heartily and sat at the table after kissing Volodya on the cheek. “What was going on at work for you, by the way?”

“Nothing much. I went and picked up some documents. I’ll still need to check some reports, but generally speaking, I’m now wholly at your disposal.”

“Super!”

Volodya put a plate in front of him. Yura, his face still screwed up sceptically, tried the food, chewed thoughtfully, hemmed, and pronounced his verdict:

“Not so bad!” He began to dig into his portion with an appetite. “So, what are our plans for this week?”

“I don’t know. You’re planning to go for a lot of walking, to see Kharkiv. You just need to dress warmer. And also, if you remember, Ira and Zhenya want to see you, we could pop round theirs.” He thought, trying to remember what else he had planned for the trip, when Yura, smiling affectionately, beckoned him with his finger. “What?” Volodya asked playfully as he took a step towards him.

Yura got a hold of his t-shirt to pull him in closer to himself and, embracing him around the waist, he adhered his cheek to his chest.

“I don’t want to go anywhere, it’s such disgusting weather out! Let’s spend this whole trip at home, we’ll watch movies, drink rum and…” Without breaking off the embrace, Yura looked up at Volodya. “Not get out of bed.”

Volodya tousled his hair and smiled broadly:

“That’s the best plan in the world!”

***

The next two weeks turned out to be more or less the best of Volodya’s life. Despite the fact that every day of theirs was spent according to the same script, he didn’t get bored of it, and, so it seemed, he never would.

They woke up early - Yura invariably grumbled through his drowsiness, but exerted an effort to get up and, yawning, went to get dressed. In the first days, Volodya suggested he sleep a little longer, saying that he could walk Gerda by himself, but Yura was uncompromising.

“At the end of the day, you don’t think it’s you I came to see, do you?” he once joked while stroking the dog on the scruff of her neck. “No, of course I came for her, my heart belongs only to Gerda. How could I refuse a walk with her?”

Afterwards, they would return to bed. They would lounge around, lazily chatting about something unimportant, then Yura would fall asleep for a little while. Volodya would lay next to him meanwhile and admired him, trying to commit these moments of happiness to memory.

Sometimes, Volodya worked - despite his promise to Yura, he couldn’t completely set all his business aside, and he had to set aside at least a couple of hours per day. Yura didn’t get upset about it, he understood it all perfectly well. During those times, he forced himself to play on the old, out-of-tune piano, though with each passing day, his practicing grew shorter and rarer. Volodya was worried that he was breaking his usual routine, but Yura brushed him off, saying that he was on holiday.

More than anything else, Voloya looked forward to the evenings. Time and time again, they spent them in the same way, but they never got bored. The consistency gave the evenings a particular, familial veneer.

Yura opened a bottle of rum, laid on the sofa in the living room, and rested his head on Volodya’s chest and together they would listen to all sorts of music - either something old that had stood the test of time, or something modern, fresh off the presses. Sometimes Yura would ironise, sometimes he would laugh and openly mock it, and sometimes he would sit in silence with his eyes closed, then go all meditative for a couple of hours.

Several times, Volodya suggested they listen to Yura’s own composition - the fourth track on the gift CD, but Yura for some reason kept saying no.

Further, Volodya suddenly discovered an interest for the culinary. He usually got by on simple combinations of ingredients, but cooking together with Yura turned out to be fun and exciting. Besides, Yura missed the local cuisine and therefore he kept remembering and suggesting something new for them to cook. More often than not, Volodya didn’t even know how to cook the dishes, but the internet and Masha came to the rescue.

First of all, Yura, naturally, ordered borsch. They prepared it according to Sidorova’s strict direction, as she hung over them on the phone. It still didn’t turn out as tasty as her own, but Yura was still pleased. And when he got it into his head to make solyanka for dinner, Volodya said goodbye for good to the idea of eating properly for those two weeks.

He tried to plan things out, to make shopping lists of ingredients so that he could buy things for at least two or three days at a time, rather than going to the shops every day. He was sincerely surprised by how Yura, who lived by such a strict routine in his working life could put up with so much chaos in the rest of it.

For example, at the end of the first week of the holiday, they went to the shops having agreed to make grilled chicken for dinner and came home with a bag of flour and a pack of mince to bake pelmeni. However, Volodya made no arguments against them, he just made his peace. Anyway, trying to bake pelmeni while listening simultaneously to a Brahms symphony and an introductory course on the era of Romanticism in music kept him too busy to complain.

At the beginning of the second week of the trip, it began to warm up properly outside. The sun beat down hard enough that towards the end of his morning run, Volodya had to take his jersey off.

Yura caught up with him after five minutes, but not alone, with Gerda. Volodya chuckled ironically - normally she ran together with him, but now she wouldn’t take a single step away from Yura.

“Shall we go for a walk around the area today?” suggested Yura as he looked off into the distant forest, his hand on his forehead to cover his eyes. “I don’t feel like the city, but the weather’s nice.”

Volodya nodded.

“Let’s. We can go there.” He pointed at a tall, forested hill in the distance. “The view’s beautiful from there, and you can get to it by car, so we don’t have to tramp around in the mud. True, we’ll have to climb it on foot.”

Towards lunchtime, the weather improved considerably. True, in the forest, it was chilly and damp, but the gusts of warm wind brought along with themselves the smell of spring. Shoots were sprouting from the branches and somewhere high up in the canopy, birds were singing.

Getting up the hill turned out not to be so simple - their feet kept slipping on the not-yet-dry ground. Before leaving the house, Volodya made Yura put on Wellington boots and an old jacket. While they were climbing, Yura managed to trip on a root sticking out of the ground and was only saved from falling by flying into Volodya’s back. Volodya laughed, Yura swore, but once they got to the place that had been pointed out, they agreed that it was worth the effort.

As they came out onto the small plateau, Volodya took a full-chested breath and cast his gaze around the surroundings. He turned around to face Yura, who looked puzzled. He was checking out the pile of debris in the middle of the plateau - damp, rotten planks with green paint peeling off.

“Is that…” He glanced questioningly at Volodya.

“The lovers’ hut,” he nodded.

Yura sighed:

“Well, that’s sad. What a place it was.”

Volodya shrugged.

“The place hasn’t gone anywhere. I’ve arranged for this junk to be removed, it’s all rotten. But there’ll be a new one built soon.”

Yura drew closer and stood next to him. He trailed off in fascination:

“Beatiful…”

And it really was. A little scary because of the height. The plateau cut off abruptly: below, there was a sandy outcropping with thick undergrowth that led smoothly to the river. To the right was the cottage village and behind it, the boundless steppe with white voids of as-yet unmelted snow amongst the brown of last year’s grass.

The bright sun shining through the thick, fluffy clouds cast quaint shadows over the landscape spread out before them and glittered off the water. The river rustled, full of half-thawed water, and didn’t seem dried up at all, but Volodya knew: as soon as the thaw ended, the stream would grow thinner again, and in the scorching-hot summer, it would turn swampy and dry up completely.

“It’s all so familiar and yet, at the same time, so… strange,” said Yura thoughtfully.

Volodya nodded.

“Over there,” he pointed at a marsh covered completely in withered reeds, “used to be that backwater with the lilies.”

Yura sighed.

“And there’s Lastochka.” He took a step closer to the cliff. “It’s completely overgrown; in the summer, it’s probably not visible at all…” As he looked at the camp, Yura paused for several seconds, but then suddenly came back to life and asked, “Do you ever think about what to do with it?”

“Many a time,” nodded Volodya. Captivated by the view of Yura stood motionless on the very edge of the cliff, he approached him from behind and hugged him. “I’ve thought but never decided on anything.”

“Maybe a park for the Swallow’s Nest residents?” asked Yura. “Make some running paths, fix up the courts, some playgrounds for kids. It’d be nice, wouldn’t it?”

“We already have a park like that. And though it’s a long way from my house, a second would be too much.” Volodya shook his head. “Maybe we should build a camp? Or just a resort complex for family holidays. Fix up everything that we can, and build what we can’t from scratch.” He led his nose around Yura’s ear, kissed his earring and set his chin down on his shoulder. “What do you think?”

He replied, still looking far away, deep in thought:

“A camp? Who needs it… And half the camps and holiday resorts are empty anyway, as I found out last autumn.” He turned to Volodya and looked at him seriously. “You’re not going to bring Lastochka back, Volod. Even if you repair everything down to the tiniest details… the time has already passed.”

***

The last days were made gloomy by their impending separation. There was no sadness, but bitter thoughts lurked in the corners like shadows and now and then set upon Volodya, catching him unawares. He tried to remove them from his head and forget about their inevitable split, but time wouldn’t stop: the day before Yura’s departure had arrived.

Their last days together.

Right from the morning, Volodya felt déjà-vu. Just like in Germany, Yura woke up before him and was sitting in the kitchen in complete silence. He wasn’t smoking like he had been back then, but was rather staring absently in front of himself. Seeing him like that again , Volodya got the feeling they were caught in a time loop.

Everything that had already happened would repeat itself perfectly: the internet, the waiting, the same questions - ‘When are you coming?’ and ‘Why aren’t you answering?’. Hours from message to message, working without interest, the search for something to occupy himself with to distract himself from his loneliness - existing rather than living. And constant yearning. He had had enough.

“This all reminds me of something,” said Volodya in place of a greeting.

Yura smiled sadly and shrugged. He stood up, kissed him on the cheek, went over to the piano and ran his fingers along the keys.

Volodya followed him with his eyes and asked:

“Will you play?”

“Maybe we could listen to something instead? How about jazz?”

Yura put on a Glen Miller Orchestra CD and sat down to breakfast with Volodya. The music felt inappropriately playful for that morning and irritated him rather than cheered him up.

“I have a better idea,” declared Volodya. He strode over to the music station, “and you, Yur, have a duty.”

He put Yura’s gift in, but didn’t have the chance to turn it on before Yura complained:

“Why, though? Don’t.” He went over to Volodya and tried to turn it off, but Volodya cut him off.

“I insist.”

The music began to play. Yura folded his arms over his chest and, going over to the fireplace, slumped awkwardly into an armchair and gasped painfully.

“Ow, I think I’ve sprained it.” He frowned and began to rub his ankle.

Voloyda was by him in a flash to take a look at his leg, and not having discovered anything suspicious, asked:

“Yur, are you faking it?”

Yura rolled his eyes.

“Trust me.”

Voloyda sat in the armchair opposite, got Yura’s foot up on his knee and began to massage his ankle, but Yura frowned even harder. Volodya asked him, concerned:

“Is it painful?”

Yura shook his head.

“You shouldn’t have put it on.”

“I don’t understand…” Volodya looked him intently in the eye, but Yura lowered his gaze. “Yura, I don’t like all this avoidance. Why are you so stubborn about not listening to it?”

“I’m not against listening to it, but I don’t want to tell you about it. You’ve got to understand, I recorded this CD before you came to Germany, and back then, I didn’t yet know that you’d be so jealous.”

Sensing a familiar, painful feeling flare up in his chest, Volodya guessed what the reason was for Yura’s silence. More accurately, who it was.

“Jonas again…” he sighed heavily.

“Again,” nodded Yura. “I understand your feelings. You might think my whole life revolves around him.”

“Yes, I really could,” replied Volodya. “But you were right when you said you can’t just cut someone out of your life who's been a part of it for six years. I understand you, I have Igor, only, unlike you, I’ve put not a small amount of effort into getting away from him.”

“Just don’t get angry.”

But Volodya wasn’t angry, just tired. He was sick of bumping into Jonas in practically every conversation. It felt like he was in the present, not the past, that there were three of them, not two.

As he ran his fingers over Yura’s skin, Volodya reflected on how to get rid of that superfluous third, but he didn’t make his mind up: he didn’t know enough about Jonas to cut him out of their lives once and for all.

After a minute of silence, he quietly asked:

“Yura, tell me about the two of you, and we can finally put an end to this. We’re both tired of it.”

Yura’s brow twitched.

“Won’t that make it worse?”

Volodya chuckled cheerlessly:

“It’s only going to get worse if I find him in your bed.”

“No way, that’s never going to happen! Jonas is long since in the past.”

I wouldn’t say so, thought Volodya, but he kept silent.

Yura shifted to get more comfortable in his chair and put his foot back out to Volodya, since he noticed he was continuing the massage.

“We were introduced by mutual friends,” he finally began. “For some reason, Jonas reminded me of you. But only in appearance. On the inside, you’re completely different.”

“So?” Volodya interrupted more aggressively than he meant to. He didn’t appreciate the remark; it was like Yura was justifying himself.

“Nothing, I’m just saying,” he said, seemingly without noticing the harshness. “For a while, we were just dating, it never crossed our minds to move in together. But after a year, my parents found out about us. We had such an argument that I had to leave home and move to Jonas’ in Berlin. I hated depending on him. But I was deep in my studies and couldn’t rent an apartment - that’s how I justified it to myself. Jonas was already a gay activist at that point, but he hadn’t yet gotten into politics. That’s why we liked our civil partnership.” Yura put that in air quotes. "It’s true, I think back to those times now and I know, we lived pretty well, we went to all sorts of parties and gatherings. But his apartment was like a thoroughfare: always full of people, some of which Jonas even let stay the night. But soon, he came up with the idea to found a political party to fight for the rights of sexual minorities and turned our home into something like a headquarters. And with my music, I needed quiet and personal space. Since then, there was a split between us, we began to argue; we even had a fight once, can you imagine?” Yura laughed.

It was not funny to Volodya. He couldn’t even imagine lifting a hand against Yura, let alone because of his music. He swallowed the ‘That bastard’ roaring in his throat and continued to listen in silence.

“After the fight, we didn’t split up, but I did decide that I’d rather live alone and I began to actively search for an apartment. But as soon as I moved, I caught wind of rumours that someone had turned up at Jonas’s. But we hadn’t actually broken up, we met at his three times a week. I hurtled over to his and caused a scandal.” He chuckled and averted his gaze. “Then we made up.”

“And it was that easy for you to forgive his cheating?” growled Volodya.

“I still don’t know for sure whether he was cheating on me then or not. He assured me that he was being slandered. That there was, and had been, no-one but me, that he didn’t need anyone else. Besides, the guys who had told on him unexpectedly backtracked, saying maybe yes, maybe not. Whatever the case may have been, after that incident, I began to get paranoid. I tried to find out who he was talking with and when, I made scenes of my jealousy, while he was never jealous of anyone. He was actually a bit insulted. In general, our arguments were tremendous, but our make-ups were… good as well. I was afraid of leaving him alone and in the end, we moved in together again, but this time, he moved to mine - my apartment was bigger. But together with him came all his trash. You can’t imagine what bedlam it was at ours: I’d be in my office and he’d be in the living room with his comrades and acquaintances. He’d have friends shouting, I’d have my music, he would shout at me because of my music, I’d shout at him because of his friends. And you know, despite the fact that they were engaged with such noble work, politics, the parties at ours were wild. And not just the drinking. I don’t know how I tolerated it for almost a year! But my patience ran out when I came across, in my bedroom, in my own bed, a threesome!”

“With Jonas?” probed Volodya hoarsely.

“What, no! He wouldn’t have had the nerve.”

He fell unexpectedly silent. He chewed his lip and stared unseeingly out the window. Volodya saw he was trying to pick his words, that it wasn’t coming easily for him, and therefore he didn’t hurry him.

Once he had collected himself, Yura continued:

“Anyway, the story of the headquarters in my home came to an end and we began to live like a proper family. So it might have seemed from the outside, but in actual fact, the politics was beginning to ruin our lives. It demanded too much time and effort, although it came into our lives by bits and parts. Jonas had a need to talk about it constantly, and, perhaps, you could say I’d deprived him of that by kicking out all of his society. Soon after, he opened the community centre. The one that me and you went to,” he specified. “Jonas lost whole days and nights at a time there, but even when he was home, we had nothing to talk about. I couldn’t keep the conversation going with him the way he needed me to.”

“What did he need?” Volodya didn’t understand.

“Jonas didn’t just work in politics, he lived for it. In the beginning of their journey, people like him need a partner who thinks alike. Jonas needed another person just like himself, to not just share ideas with, but to go on to the point of exhaustion about them together with. Early on, I tried to find time between Jonas and my music, but in the end, my music won. I finally got a big break in my career - I finally stopped slapping together cheap, mass consumption stuff for shops and restaurants. That’s such a uniquely empty kind of music, you know, to fill silence but without distracting customers. I earnt my living from that parody of art for several years. But then I closed a deal with a label and could finally work on real creative stuff. And since then, that’s all I’ve been interested in. But Jonas simply hated it. He once told me that my music, and music on the whole, for that matter, was meaningless.”

“That’s a load of rubbish!” exclaimed Volodya with heat. “What, he denied the value of art?”

“He didn’t deny the value, he denied the very point of my ‘scribblings’, as he called them. And the worst part was that he was actually right. Music really is meaningless, because time passes and it will inevitably be lost and forgotten. The works of the great composers might become immortal thanks to chance or their exclusive talent, but that certainly won’t happen to mine. A soundtrack will be preserved in history thanks to the film it’s in, but even the most popular films will be forgotten. And in fifty years’ time, no-one’s likely to be listening to anything written by some Yura Konev.”

Volodya was about to open his mouth to object, but Yura smiled condescendingly and shook his head.

“Jonas didn’t understand the main thing: for me, these ‘scribblings’ were an attempt to preserve what’s condemned to die out. I love music for its frailty. But Jonas was right about something else: that what he was doing was for everyone’s benefit and was even saving lives. But back then, I was so wounded by what he’d said that I went off on a real hysterical one - we had a terrible argument. He packed up his things, left, and stopped answering my calls. Sometime after a week, I couldn’t hold out any longer and I ran off to find him. He wasn’t at the community centre; I was going to go to Motzstrasse and go round every club, but I first guessed to go to our old apartment. Of course, I still had my keys, and I didn’t even think to knock on the door, I opened it myself. I should have knocked, I wouldn’t have seen-”

He fell abruptly silent and turned away, as though trying to hide his emotions. He inhaled, exhaled, looked back and Volodya and continued flatly:

“He didn’t hear me come in and continued bouncing on some guy. I couldn’t believe my eyes as I stood there in the doorway, staring like an idiot, thinking it couldn’t be Jonas. But it was him, not drunk, not on drugs, the real him!”

He fell silent again and turned away. Then he leant his head back fully on the rest and covered his face with his hand. He sighed heavily.

“I don’t know what went through my head, I don’t remember. But I didn’t say a word, I just ran out of there and my feet brought me with a will of their own to Motzstrasse.” As he was saying this, he didn’t take his hand off his face, trying to avoid looking at Volodya. His voice sounded muffled. “I drank myself into oblivion and in some club, I don’t remember which anymore, I bumped into this one guy from pride who’d been trying to hook up with me for ages. Don’t ask me why I did it, I don’t know! He’d wanted it for a long time, but I was the one who proposed it: I was a free man now, after all, there was nothing to stop me. Oh God…”

“Uh-huh. And naturally, he agreed,” drawled Volodya, making a face.

“Yes.”

With the understanding that he had no right to judge, Volodya still couldn’t stay silent. He asked mockingly, knowing the answer in advance:

“And did that solve the problem? Did it make things easier?”

“No, of course not.”

Yura lowered his feet onto the floor and sat hunched over in the armchair. Volodya couldn’t stay angry at him. But he could at Jonas.

“I now very much regret,” he hissed through gritted teeth, “not giving that sleazebag’s face a beating. And you were good, you did well to break up with him.”

“I didn’t break up with him,” whispered Yura. “I forgave him. I loved him, you’ve got to understand.”

Loved him, repeated Volodya in his mind. Nevertheless, even without having said that, it had already become clear to him: Yura had truly loved Jonas, genuinely and sincerely.

But Volodya was scared, truly scared of something else: the main person in Yura’s life wasn’t him, it was Jonas! And Volodya, in reality, was merely the continuation of a first love, the kind everyone has and everyone forgets about.

Volodya had nothing after Yurka, there was nothing left after him. His feelings for him had for many years extinguished Volodya’s ability to fall in love. He felt a tenderness for Sveta, shame and fear for her. There was lust for Igor, hope and hurt. But there had been no love. In all his life, Volodya had felt it for nobody but Yura. But Yura had loved. Genuinely, strongly, self-denyingly, self-sacrificingly, exactly how Volodya had once loved him.

At the same time, he understood that in actual fact, there was nothing reprehensible, wrong or unjust about Yura having loved someone else. Yura had simply had the courage to experience such strong feelings anew. How could he be guilty of anything? Of course he wasn’t, but Volodya was killed, poisoned and turned inside out by the fact that Jonas meant as much to Yura as Volodya had in their youth.

If his bright, crystalline image of Yurka had begun to crack back in Berlin, then during this conversation, it had shattered into pieces, which smashed against the floor with a melodic sound as they fell and disappeared forever. But if the Yura whose image he had so carefully preserved in his memory no longer existed, then who was sitting in front of him right then? Someone else? Not likely. A stranger? No. And what did that ‘someone’ mean to him?

He meant a lot. After all, one look from his brown eyes made his heart beat faster and his chest grow warm. He was drawn towards Yura, and his own voice sounded so sweet when he said his name. Yu-ra. The music of that name, whether whispered or shouted, was singularly magical.

“Then why did you break up?” asked Volodya, feeling an emptiness inside.

“We broke up without any reason. It all happened by itself. It’s like the wool was lifted from my eyes, I blew like a bulb and realised that I simply didn’t want to see him anymore, that it had all gone: the love, the attraction, really any kind of feelings or emotions.”

“But Jonas said that you came back to him.”

“I felt bad about the time I’d given to him and the feelings I’d once felt. I went back, yes. To leave the next day. But there’s a limit to everything, and one time, I left for good.”

“I see,” said Volodya.

The track about Germany which had been going round on repeat was beginning to irritate him. As if he had caught onto the change in Volodya’s mood, Yura went over to the music station and turned the CD off. The house was plunged into silence.

Yura returned to Volodya and ran his fingers through his hair. Volodya lifted an empty, emotionless look to him.

“What’s wrong?” asked Yura softly.

“Nothing,” replied Volodya drily. “I just envy you. In almost forty years, I’ve not loved anyone apart from you.”

A spasm seemed to pass over Yura’s face. He suddenly sank to his knees, clasped Volodya’s cheeks in his hands and stared him in the eyes so intently, it was like he was trying to peer into the most secret corners of his soul.

“Volodya, what have I just done?” he asked hoarsely.

“You told me about-”

“No! What have I just done to you? Have I offended you? Hurt you?”

“How could it be otherwise, Yura? Of course it hurts me!” exclaimed Volodya. “But what do we do now? You can’t change the past. But thank you for your honesty.”

“How can I set this right?” Yura sank to the floor entirely and set his forehead on Volodya’s knee.

The gesture embarrassed him - Yura shouldn’t have had to apologise sitting at his feet like a dog. Volodya offered a hand to Yura, trying to lift him back up, but Yura squeezed his palm and kissed it.

“You know,” he whispered as he looked up at Volodya with tenderness, “I never dedicated songs to him. I’ve never done that for anyone except you, and no-one has inspired me like you do.”

Volodya lowered himself onto the floor next to Yura and hugged him. He gently pressed his head to his chest and kissed his hair. His heart was being torn apart by his feelings swinging from pole to pole: from anger, almost hatred, over Yura’s love for someone else, to an all-encompassing affection for Yura and a fear of losing him, to let him out of his embrace for even a minute.

“I don’t want you to go,” croaked Volodya - his throat was tight with anxiety. “I don’t want to give you back to anyone.”

“You’re not giving me away to anyone. Before thinking like that, ask my opinion, whether I’d really want to give myself to anyone but you?”

“But I can’t live the way you’re suggesting. You over there, me here. A relationship across two countries, not even just two cities! Separate lives: you have your own, I have my own, we each have our homes, it’s just we sometimes cross paths. Surely that can’t be what you want?”

“No,” mumbled Yura.

“Me neither!” Volodya laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it firmly. “I want it all and right now, I want us to be a family. I want to share a home, day-to-day life, my dog, I really just want to share.”

Yura laughed mutedly.

“And what’s to be done about it? Emigrate again? Which one of us?”

“Well…” Volodya trailed off and fell silent. His words sounded naive, but he refused to give up. “Stay with me, work here, and send your commissions off over the internet. That’s possible, right?”

“To live like that? I don’t think so.”

“Well, maybe not to live, but just to stay for a bit longer than a week? If the need arises, you could fly to Germany, like a business trip.”

“My dear Volodya…” Yura let hang in the air, withdrawing. The sad smile on his lips spoke better than any words.

“I see,” said Volodya. He stood up. “I need to take the dog for a walk.”

He quickly got dressed, called Gerda and went into the hallway. Yura hurried to go with him, but Volodya stopped him:

“I need to spend some time alone. It’s been too much information for one day - I need to get it all through my head.”

As he closed the door behind himself, he saw Yura standing at a loss in the middle of the room, but he simply could not find the strength to be with him right then.

When he returned an hour and a half later, he caught Yura in the hallway putting his coat on.

“Where are you going?” asked Volodya, without hiding the anxiety in his voice.

“I also want to go for a walk,” replied Yura. He shot him a serious look. “Tell me, what have you been thinking? Are we breaking up?”

“What? No!”

“Shall I wait for you in the summer?”

“Wait. Of course, wait,” said Volodya, hiding his eyes. He understood what Yura was getting at, and added, “I’ll put up with a long-distance relationship until it breaks me. For our sake.”

“That’s good.” Yura nodded.

“Still though, where are you going?”

“I said, I’m going for a walk.”

Yura quickly disappeared behind the door before Volodya could say a word.

He regretted allowing him to waste the scant time remaining to them. He wanted to go back to that morning and not start the conversation about Jonas and Yura’s past at all. To not ruin their last day together. But it was already ruined, and then evening and the night as well. And Yura’s plane was the next day.

After an hour, Yura had not returned, nor after three. Volodya called him twice to ask when he would be coming back, but he replied that he wasn’t ready to go back home yet.

During all that time, Volodya couldn’t find a place for himself: he paced around every room, washed all his dishes, even the clean ones, made dinner, but didn’t eat a bite, got books out, but put them back straight away. He grew angry.

When the clock struck six o’clock on the dot, he heard the doorbell ring and he broke out running towards it.

“Where have you been?” He barely restrained himself from shouting at Yura. “Why were you so long? I practically lost my mind!”

“I returned my ticket,” was all Yura said in reply as he victoriously watched Volodya’s lips spread into a smile.

#о чём молчит ласточка #лето в пионерском галстуке #translation #russian #lgbt #my translations #ya

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